


Enucleation

by Generouslyinnercheesecake



Series: Evolution [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parent, Asperger Syndrome, Autistic Damian Wayne, Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Bruce Wayne being a B- Parent, Bruce Wayne is just SAD, C-PTSD, Diagnosis, Dinah Lance is a psychiatrist, Hypersensitivity/Hyposensitivity, Light Angst, Some Stimming, because I said so, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Generouslyinnercheesecake/pseuds/Generouslyinnercheesecake
Summary: After two years, Bruce finally takes action.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: All public characters, settings, etc. are not mine and are property of DC comics. I am not making money off of this work. All my original characters/plot are property of me, the author, and I am not associated with DC comics in any way, shape, or form
> 
> Hello, amazing readers! I’m here with another story (which has actually been in my docs for like, a couple weeks—finished and ready to post...oops). This story deals with pretty heavy topics (Asperger Syndrome and C-PTSD) so I suggest if you’re sensitive to those things that you not read this. Never, ever risk your own mental health to read some fanfiction. I also wanted to say that I don’t have these things, so it may not be completely 100% accurate. However, I do have a sibling who may have one of them, and I have done tons of research on both subjects. If anyone feels that this is too inaccurate, I will not hesitate to completely delete this story. 
> 
> If you are one of the people who has this syndrome or disorder and feel like I am not fully representing something correctly, please (please) educate me. My comments are open for anyone to say anything—whether that to express their criticisms with my story or talk about their diagnoses. Trust me, I know the feeling when you get a hard diagnosis. 
> 
> Anyways, sorry for that long rant. I hope you enjoy the story!

Damian redrew the details of Titus’ snout once again, the shape not quite correct. The right nostril was just slightly larger than the left one, but every time Damian attempted to redraw it, he was never quite satisfied with the result.

Sometimes the nostril was too large, but other too small. Sometimes it was too dark in shading, sometimes too light. Other times it looked completely different from the other nostril.

Overall, Damian was peeved.

He began drawing and shading his trusty dog in the early afternoon, but when he finally lifted his head and looked through the cream-colored curtains Damian noticed the sun disappearing beneath the skyline. Damian simply blinked, then returned back to redrawing the nostrils. Time was not much of an issue for him currently. He could easily finish his homework in the car ride to school. His school grades were superb, anyway.

He was so close. Just a tiny adjustment, then he would be satisfied with the result of the overall snout. “Hm,” he grunted to himself, dragging the pencil on the sketch paper.

When he finally felt satisfied with the nostrils, he shaded the rest of the body. Damian narrowed his eyes when he noticed the uneven paws.

He brought his sketchbook to patrol.

* * *

Patrol had been, admittedly, tiring. Damian’s father had been shadowing him the entire him, not even bothering to pretend to trust Damian in any small brawl. 

His father was hard for Damian to understand. Not only were the purpose behind some of his actions ambiguous, but his words sometimes betrayed his body language. Yes, Bruce was blunt, but also not fully candid about his true feelings on any matter.

However, Damian always followed his mother in his childhood, so it was only appropriate that the boy not question the meaning behind some of Bruce’s decisions.

But sometimes...

Damian had no patience with the man. And Drake. And Grayson. And Brown. And Thomas. And Gordon. And Todd, when he would visit the manor at all. It was when their words were ambiguous and inconsistent; one minute, they would say one thing, then it would be a completely different thing the next minute. Then they would act offended, coy when Damian demanded for a straightforward answer.

One of those instances was right now.

“Write your report, Damian,” Bruce ordered. Damian’s shoulder’s lessened, then he walked to the cave computer. “After you get patched up.”

Damian grit his teeth. He just told him to write his report. Why was he making this so difficult for Damian? Damian just wanted to be a good soldier.

The boy straightened out his back, then marched over to the medical table. “Why did you not say that first?” Damian demanded. He honestly couldn’t understand his own bratty tone of voice. It didn’t matter anyway, as long as his father answered the question.

Bruce exhaled through his nose. “You should’ve done it anyway. You got injured,” he stated.

Damian -tt-ed, the noise and action comforting and calming for the twelve-year-old. “Barely,” Damian bit out, taking off his tunic and undershirt. It’s true, for him at least. Bruce’s view, however was completely different. The stab wound was more than a cause for alarm.

Bruce pulled back his cowl as he paced to the medical table. Damian had started to clean the wound himself (quite meticulously and with great focus), but Bruce needed to stitch the wound to assure himself that his son was decent. Besides, it would be incredibly difficult for Damian to stitch himself up with one hand. Bruce made sure to take his gloves off before beginning the stitch, as it usually caused Damian to storm off earlier.

As Bruce began his first stitch, Damian didn’t make a single movement or noise, instead scanning around the vast cave. “What?” Bruce asked him suddenly. Still, the boy didn’t twitch.

“What?” Damian bit back. _Why is Father acting so vague?_

Bruce took a deep breath. “Why are you staring so intensely around the cave? Did you sneak another animal in?” He questioned Damian.

Damian’s brows furrowed. “No. I would like a turkey next, but they make plenty of noise,” he refuted, missing the point entirely.

Bruce paused his stitchings. No, his son was not stupid, but he was just not...socially adept. Like him.

The father continued his stitchings as he repeated, “Why are you staring so intensely around the cave?”

Damian frowned, realizing now what his father was asking. “That is none of your business,” he spat out. Bruce didn’t hesitate on his next stitching.

“It is my business,” Bruce refuted. “In fact, I work in business.”

Damian pulled back his arm, not surprising Bruce in the slightest. This happened during most medical sessions, some just ended shorter than others. The boy had fits of anger, but they were predictable almost to the point of a pattern. Bruce inwardly reminded himself to track them down.

“Why is that relevant to the conversation?!” Damian yelled, narrowing his eyes.

Bruce ground his teeth. “It was a joke, Damian,” he replied calmly.

Damian grunted frustratedly, making that little -tt- noise. Sometimes it drove Bruce insane. “I need to make the report,” Damian said before stomping to the computer and starting a new report.

He typed quickly, as though he already knew exactly what he was going to write. To the very first letter of his report to the last. Bruce placed the needle and thread in a metal tray, then picked up his gloves. “Finish the stitch before bed,” he told his son, who was furiously typing.

Damian made no regard to him, so Bruce slapped him with his gloves. It wasn’t hard enough to make the skin on his uninjured arm red, but it got Damian’s attention. The boy scowled at his father when he looked up at what Bruce lazily smacked him with. “Finish the stitch before bed,” Bruce repeated.

The boy just clenched his jaw, then returned back to his typing. Bruce didn’t move for a moment, and just thought about his son’s behavior over the last two years. A lot of his behaviors and mannerisms were predictable, but had an insignificant cause. It could be something so small, such as sarcasm he couldn’t comprehend or an order that had been changed last minute.

Damian had always been a handful.

_I deserve to document my son’s behavio_r, Bruce decided, then walked to the showers.

* * *

_Definitely documenting this_, Bruce thought as Damian screamed at Tim.

“I asked for you to-“ Damian fumbled on his words, unable to think of a comeback.

“What?” Tim asked back brattily. “You asked for me to stop bouncing my leg, Damian!” The ridiculousness finally revealed.

“Yes!” Damian yelled back, not understanding how ludicrous it was to get this frustrated over such a minimal action.

Tim put his head in his hands, feeling defeated. “Damian,” he muttered angrily in his hands. “Why do those things bother you so much!?” Tim was obviously annoyed, so Damian was glad that at least Tim’s body was consistent with his words sometimes.

“It is absolutely vexing!” Damian yelled, his words sounding as if they were premeditated.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Well, sorry Prince Damian, but if someone is annoyed by something they usually walk away,” he said. Damian didn’t look directly at Tim, instead fixating his glare on the bats. “Listen to me, Damian!” Tim waved his hands.

Another short moment passed when Damian replied, “I am not legally a prince. Also, you were causing me great irritation!”

Tim stuffed his hands in his hair, frustration boiling over. “Then walk away, Damian!” He yelled.

Damian somehow scowled harder, then scoffed. He didn’t say anything else, and instead began stomping out of the cave. Tim furrowed his eyebrows, confused. _Why’d he...Oh._

“Damian,” Tim said the boy’s name, but he continued walking, his shoulders up to his ears and his legs stiff. It was then that Tim realized how much the noise and action had truly stressed out the boy. So much so that he felt no other obligation than to blow up and scream. “I’m sorry.”

Damian finally stopped stomping, then turned back to Tim in a deadly manner. “About what?” Damian spat out.

Tim sighed. He knew what ever he would say, Damian would not approve. “I’m sorry I...” Tim pursed his lips, feeling hopeless, “made you feel stressed,” the young man blurted out. 

Instantly, Damian’s face alighted with anger. “You cannot make me feel anything, Drake!” He yelled, pointing his finger accusingly. “I am not-“ Damian fumbled on his words once again. “I am not...” he tried again with no success.

Bruce stepped into the light, the notebook and pen safely tucked into his pants pocket. “Damian, go up to your room,” he ordered calmly. Damian narrowed his eyes at his father, but didn’t object. The boy stormed up the cave stairs, most likely retreating to his bedroom in the manor.

Tim turned lazily to Bruce. “You’ve been there this entire time, haven’t you,” Tim said. It wasn’t a question, but Bruce nodded once anyway.

“I’m observing and documenting Damian’s behavior,” Bruce admitted with no shame.

Tim, as he dragged his feet back to the computer seat, muttered annoyedly, “And they call _me_ the stalker.” Tim paused, then asked Bruce, “Why don’t you just observe through the cameras?”

Bruce’s quirk of the brow was almost unnoticeable. “You can’t tell someone’s true emotions through a camera lens,” he told Tim. Tim nodded slowly, spinning back to the computer screen.

He didn’t need to ask what Damian’s true emotions were; he already knew.

Tim paused his scrolling, however, when another query popped into his head. “Why are you doing all of this?” He asked curiously as he turned his chair around again to face his father-figure.

Bruce deliberated his next words. Should he tell Tim, in case Damian actually does have some medical disorder—or should he let nature run its course so the results be as authentic as possible?

“You’ve already observed me and Damian, why not observe him and Dick?” Tim suggested, somehow knowing what was going through Bruce’s head.

Bruce nodded, taking out the notepad from his back pocket. “Short temper, sensitive to certain sounds and secondary sensations, unable to properly communicate frustrations, unable to distinguish sarcasm, hyposensitivity to pain, extreme concentration on one subject, unable to multi-task, unable to distinguish facial expressions, bursts of anger that usually results in a physical altercations,” Bruce listed off. “Need I say more? I have more,” he commented sarcastically.

Tim just blinked owlishly at Bruce. “You didn’t answer my-“

“Damian has some kind of mental disorder,” Bruce finally admitted. “I need to document my own accounts, then I can go to Dinah for a proper diagnosis.”

Tim’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? You think that something is wrong with him?” He asked, shocked. Suddenly, guilt washed over him. Maybe he treating the boy wrong this entire time. Perhaps he was some sort of cruel brother whom taunted his mentally ill little sibling, not understanding the boy’s perspective at all.

Bruce peered back down at the notepad. “Yes,” he said firmly. He opened his mouth once, hesitated, then said, “If something is wrong, Tim, you haven’t done anything bad.” Tim frowned, so Bruce continued, “We haven’t known, looked into it for over two years. And Talia wasn’t much of a caring mother.”

Tim eyes went downward, the guilt forming in his chest. He felt horrible. For the snide comments, for the physical fights, for the avoidance of the boy altogether. “I’m sorry,” Tim apologized. He honestly didn’t know if it was for Damian, or for causing Bruce such heartache over the years.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Tim,” Bruce reassured him. Tim bowed his head.

“What do you think it is?”

Bruce sighed deeply, tiredly. “Reactive Attachment Disorder, PTSD, Avoidant Personality Disorder, autism, even OCD,” he listed off.

Tim furrowed his brows. “Why OCD?” He queried.

“He gets obsessive over certain tasks, wants certain things to remain the same every single day,” Bruce explained. Tim made a short humming noise as a reply. “Avoidant Personality Disorder, PTSD, and autism are the most likely however.”

Tim spun his chair back around with wide eyes. “You think he has autism?” He asked, surprised once again. He backtracked when he recognized the slightly judgmental tone in his voice. “I mean,” he recovered, “I never thought once that Damian had some sort of autism.”

Bruce tilted his head in an understanding sort of way. “Aspergers is considered the mild version of autism, although the symptoms still manifest the individual in multiple ways. Most notably, socially,” Bruce elaborated. Tim nodded slowly, his eyes still wide. “I suggest you do your own research, then report back to me and talk about your findings,” Bruce said-no, ordered, his voice flowing as though he were talking about an everyday mission.

Tim nodded slowly, spinning back to the computer and continuing his own research. “I’ll be back in a few days,” Tim told his father-figure.

“Very well.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my amazing people! I’m so freaking happy with the support I’ve been getting on this story so far. I’m so grateful for everyone who has read it <3 Please leave a comment if anything in this is inaccurate, and I will be more than happy to look into it or fix it. Education is more important than a story. Also on that note, I would like to mention that Aspergers is not a technical diagnosis in the DSM-5. It was changed in 2013 to Autism Spectrum Disorder I believe, but most people still use the term Aspergers (that’s why I’m using it for this story). Anyways, onto the chapter!
> 
> WARNING: Some mentions of child abuse.

Dick was currently talking with Damian, whom was on his phone. This was one instance where his phone was actually within his own possession, as he usually lost it to punishment due to bad behavior.

Damian played a mindless phone game while curled up on the comfy manor couch, seemingly not paying any attention to Dick. “Dami?” Damian didn’t shift at the mention of his nickname, and instead continued playing the phone game. “Are you listening?” Dick asked, some annoyance shone in his tone.

“Of course I’m listening, Grayson,” Damian murmured grumpily. “What would tell you otherwise?” He asked impatiently.

Dick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re on your phone while I’m talking,” Dick replied, looking directly at the boy. Damian just kept swiping his thumb while staring at the screen, occasionally blinking.

“I can do both,” the boy grumbled.

“No, Dami,” Dick protested.

Damian sighed, _finally_ closing his phone and looking at the expensive threads on the couch. “You are planning on courting Gordon again, which I highly disapprove of as you two don’t fully connect in your personal beliefs of marriage. Your idiotic best friend of a speedster invited you to his city, but you cannot find anyone to cover your patrol tonight and tomorrow evening,” Damian reiterated, surprising Dick. Damian silently reopened his phone with a single swipe, then began his game again. “I suggest him going to your city, as he has _super speed_. Why would he not use his powers to see you?”

“Continue speaking, Grayson,” he demanded after a moment of silence. Dick’s face split into a grin, then he began speaking again.

Bruce, behind the doorway, documented one last observation, then closed the notepad.

* * *

A few days had passed when Tim reported back to him. Bruce was in his personal office working on some reports from W.E. when he heard a knock on the wooden door.

“Come in.”

Tim walked into the office, carefully closing the door behind him. It was only when he closed the door that he stumbled into the chair opposite to Bruce.

“You were right,” he admitted, his chin tucked into his hand. His elbow rested on the arm of the lavish chair.

Bruce put his pen down, then placed his arms on his desktop. “What have you found?” He asked, his face purposefully blank.

“Damian exhibits almost every single symptom of Aspergers,” he answered. “I found one thing, though...” Tim began. Bruce clinically raised a single brow. “Why wouldn’t he have High-Functioning Autism?” He asked.

Bruce cleared his throat, as though he were proposing a new development in the boardroom. “High-Functioning Autism is not a proper diagnosis. Also, Damian has shown before that he has no qualms about his speech and language as most HFA kids do. Damian also doesn’t..._hate_ social interaction. He simply picks and chooses whom he wants his attention to be towards. Understand?” Bruce stated, his tone firm and slightly annoyed. Tim reluctantly nodded, sighing tiredly and flopping into the chair.

Bruce continued, “I have enough documented evidence to bring to Miss Lance. She would most likely need to speak with Damian, but then she can make a proper diagnosis.”

Tim turned his head to bury it fully in his hand, the same guilt forming. “Maybe, Bruce,” the billionaire raised his eyebrows—the first indication that his wall wasn’t completely up since Tim entered the room. “Don’t act like this is some case,” Tim stated. Bruce’s hands twitched. “I know that this stuff makes you...uncomfortable, but just...” Tim struggled with his words, lifting his head from his hand. “This is your kid,” he said, then got up to leave.

Bruce looked down at his folded hands, eyes narrowed and wondering how Damian would perceive his actions. “Damian deserves a proper diagnosis,” he said, stopping Tim in his tracks. “I’m doing this because I love him.”

Tim sighed, feeling hopeless for the man. “We know, Bruce. But it’s _how_ you do it,” he stated, then left the office.

Bruce groaned when Tim closed the door behind him, then buried his head in his arms.

* * *

Bruce asked Alfred to set up a manor appointment with Dinah (one which required her medical expertise). Alfred had only raised a single curious eyebrow, but a knowing look in his eye told Bruce otherwise.

The appointment was set for right after Damian finished school on Thursday. When Dinah asked who the appointment was for, and Bruce replied ‘Damian’, the line remained silent for so long that he thought she hung up.

The week came and went, Damian’s symptoms the same as always. The boy had been told that he had a doctor’s appointment on Thursday, which wasn’t entirely false. That was why the boy wasn’t suspicious of the sudden announcement.

A few minutes before 4 o’clock, Miss Dinah Lance knocked on the door of the Wayne Manor. Alfred answered with a bow, “Good afternoon, Miss Dinah.” The woman held a thick notebook in her right elbow, the pen cap poking from the top of the cover. “Thank you for meeting with Master Damian.”

Dinah’s face softened with the old man. Almost everyone on the league had encountered him if they knew Bruce’s identity, and they all felt relaxed around Alfred. “No worries, Mr Pennyworth,” she replied, stepping into the manor after Alfred stepped aside for her. “I’m glad Damian is finally getting the help he needs,” she muttered, peering around the entryway.

Alfred nodded lowly. “As am I, Miss Dinah,” he agreed. “May I take your coat, Miss?” Dinah nodded and turned around, allowing Alfred to slide the coat from her shoulders and place it on an almost-full rack.

“How has your afternoon been, Mr Pennyworth?” Dinah began conversing casually as the old man lead them both to Bruce’s office.

Alfred smiled a bit. “Very well, Miss Dinah. I managed to fix a error within the Batmobile, while also convincing Master Timothy to rest a bit. The poor lad has been working constantly for the past two days,” Alfred replied, not appearing to feel bad for Tim one bit. Besides, the young man frequently got lost in his own head and needed someone to encourage him to care for his own needs.

Dinah hummed disapprovingly. “I thought Tim stopped with those sort of things,” she contributed.

“Master Timothy has, and always will be so much like his mentor.”

Dinah couldn’t help but smile. Not too long after that, they both arrived at Bruce office. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth,” Dinah said to him, then knocked on the wooden door.

After a moment of silence, she heard a scraping of a chair against the floor, then, “Come in.”

Dinah carefully opened the heavy door, saying, “Good afternoon, Bruce.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Lance,” the businessman replied, sitting back down in his grand chair. “Take a seat, please,” Bruce said, motioning to the chair opposite to him.

Dinah complied, sitting down and setting the notebook on her lap. “You set up an appointment because you suspect Damian has a disorder of some sort,” she stated. It wasn’t a question used for clarification.

Bruce nodded curtly anyway. “I’ve already done blood tests, I have his updated physicals on hand, and I’ve been documenting his symptoms over the past two weeks. I have various personal accounts as well,” he declared, making Dinah nod slowly.

Dinah looked directly at Bruce. “I appreciate it, Bruce,” she said tiredly, taking out various forms and beginning to fill them out. “The blood tests indicated no signs of lead poisoning, or any blood poisoning of any kind, correct?”

“Yes.”

Dinah filled out a bit more of the form. “His full name and date of birth?” She inquired.

“Damian Thomas al Ghul-Wayne. Date of birth August 9th, 2000,” Bruce answered.

Dinah quickly filled out the forms, asking questions about his usual physical and mental states. “Angry.” Dinah raised a single judgmental eyebrow, but wrote it down anyway. “What, Miss Lance?” Bruce asked, his hands rested on the arms of his chair.

Dinah pulled the pen off the piece of paper. “He always seemed scared to me,” she commented, looking directly at Bruce. “But I guess you’re not very good at reading your children, considering how long it took for you to call a professional.”

Bruce didn’t say anything for a few short moments, so Dinah looked down at the form again. She planned to start asking more questions, but was halted by Bruce muttering, “I’m not a bad father.”

This time, it was posed as a question.

Dinah carefully placed her pen down on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry that I worded it such a passive-aggressive way, Bruce. I, truly, didn’t intend to hurt your feelings,” she apologized. “But this was an instance where you should’ve gone to a professional sooner. You can’t manage everything yourself,” she told him, attempting to conceal her preconceived views. When she had first met Damian, she thought the boy had some form of autism. She had figured that _someone_—Bruce, Dick, Tim, Cass, Barb, Duke, Alfred, even Jason—would notice within the first year. But no, they didn’t.

There were times over the last two years when she worked with autistic patients, and she was reminded of Damian. She had hoped in those moments that he was doing alright.

“What are your thoughts?” Bruce asked bluntly, his face as blank as a white canvas.

Dinah pursed her lips. “It’s not advised that a professional communicate their preconceived diagnosis before formally diagnosing,” she informed him. Bruce simply raised an eyebrow, making Dinah sigh tiredly again. “Honestly?” She asked for confirmation.

Bruce didn’t reply. Dinah continued, “I have always thought that he had some form of autism,” she confessed. Bruce didn’t appear surprised, but instead sad. “But first, I need to collect data, have a session with Damian, then go over the evidence with my team at the medical center,” she informed him. “They may need to see Damian themselves before making the formal diagnosis.”

Bruce bowed his head, obviously processing all of her previous words. “Very well,” he said. “Shall we continue?” He suggested, tilting his head to her forms.

She clicked the pen and began asking more questions.

* * *

It was a half hour later when she could finally meet with Damian privately. The boy was incredibly suspicious when Dinah requested a private session, but he relented.

As soon as he sat down across from the blonde woman, he knew that this was not what his father had promised.

“Hello, Damian,” Dinah greeted him, looking directly at Damian. It made the boy feel uncomfortable. Feel as though as he was under scrutiny. Damian didn’t reply, so Dinah pulled some papers out from her notebook.

“How has your day been?” She asked him casually.

Damian’s eyebrow twitched. It felt as though this woman was being disingenuous and mocking. Her papers obviously held some importance, so why not just ask questions to fill out the forms? “What are those forms?” Damian demanded.

Dinah didn’t even glance down at her lap. “They’re for you, Damian,” she replied. There was really no need to lie to the boy.

Damian blinked. “Has Father ordered that I be evaluated?” He hesitated, shifting his eyes away from the woman and onto a painting behind her.

Dinah hesitated herself. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you ever since you arrived, but it was your father’s decision to allow me to see you,” she said sadly.

Damian swallowed nervously. “Why?”

“Because we believe that you need help,” Dinah answered automatically.

Damian scowled. “I do not require _help_.” His tone was venomous.

“Someone who needs help is not a victim,” Dinah assured him, looking directly at the boy. Many patients held this same belief, so she was prepared to refute his assumption. “You aren’t a victim, Damian. We don’t think you are. We would just like...an explanation as to why you sometimes lash out,” she explained hesitantly.

Damian furrowed his brows and looked down, still attempting to avoid her gaze. “Is something wrong, Damian?” Dinah asked concernedly.

A long pause, then: “I would rather we converse while I don’t look at you.”

Dinah clicked her pen, smiling victoriously. “Why is that, Damian?” She inquired, her voice light and free of judgment.

Damian huffed frustratedly under his breath. “It is because I cannot...” he stopped, searching for his words. Dinah waited patiently. “Identifying someone’s body language and words at the same time is...vexing,” Damian confessed.

Dinah nodded and wrote that down. “Would you describe it as stressful?” Damian simply nodded, still avoiding her gaze. “Okay,” she said.

Dinah moved her head back up to the boy. “How do you feel when you’re talking to...say, Dick?” She asked casually. She knew Damian and Dick were partners and friends. Dick had believed in the boy when no one else did.

Damian pursed his lips, then replied, “I feel...behind.”

Dinah frowned. “In what way?”

Damian scoffed, attempting to cover his nervousness. “I...” his throat clicked, then he closed his eyes. “I am not as...socially adept as Grayson,” he stated. Dinah waited patiently for him to continue. “I feel as though...I cannot converse with people the way he does.”

Dinah nodded, ducking into her notes again. “How do you think he does? Converse, I mean,” she said.

Damian’s shoulders were now up to his ears. “I do not-!“

“Damian,” Dinah interrupted him, noticing his rising frustration. “Think about your answer, then you can tell me,” she requested, sitting back in her chair.

Damian clenched his jaw but did so anyway. _How does Grayson converse so easily_? His behavior, from what Damian had observed when Grayson was talking with his other colleagues, was...loose. He gesticulated at reasonable times (almost as if it were a pattern), and always seemed to listen to his colleagues very intensely. Whenever someone displayed happiness, he would hug them, but when they would display sadness, he would also hug them. Damian didn’t understand that concept quite yet, however.

“He’s comfortable,” Damian stated, grabbing Dinah’s attention. “He does hand-motions, acts out retellings, listens to his colleagues easily, knows when to speak, and freely displays affection,” Damian elaborated.

“Okay,” Dinah seemingly agreed. “Let’s digress,” she suggested. “How do you feel like you’re behind Dick socially?”

Damian hesitated even mentioning his mother, but knew Dinah would most likely ask anyway. “I cannot gesticulate. I cannot act out retellings. I certainly cannot properly listen to any other person. I do not know when to speak. Affections are beyond my grasp,” he insisted.

Dinah ducked back down into her notes, writing down various bullet points. “And why do you think that is?” She hesitated after looking back up at the boy. The boy still refused to look at her.

Damian’s shoulders somehow tensed even more. “My mother...” he began, and Dinah almost snapped her pen in half. _If that woman..._ Damian gathered his thoughts again, then continued, “She did not display any type of affection. Some days she would isolate me for bad behavior. Most days she prohibited any social interaction,” Damian explained, his face purposefully blank.

Dinah felt the black ink drip onto her hand. Damian, after hearing the _snick_, snapped his head up to the woman. “I shall get Pennyworth,” he said blankly.

Dinah threw the ruined pen in the wastebasket, then stood up. “It’s alright, Damian. I’ll be right back with a new pen,” she assured him before grabbing her notes with her clean hand and leaving the room.

After she carefully closed the door behind her, she sagged her body uselessly against the wood. She hadn’t known that Damian would be so easy to crack, but she guessed he had never been to one of these sessions.

She went to the nearest bathroom and furiously washed her right hand, feeling angry with Bruce. _Who did you even sleep with, Bruce?_ That woman was obviously not fit to be a mother.

She quickly dried her hands and swung the bathroom door open. Just a few feet from the door (not so coincidentally) stood Alfred, dusting. Dinah, with the notes tucked in her armpit, walked up to him. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Pennyworth, but where can I find an extra pen? My other one broke,” she stated.

Pennyworth placed the duster on edge of a near table, then extracted a pen from his front coat pocket. “Here you are, Miss Dinah,” he said as he handed the pen to her.

She thanked him, then walked back to Bruce’s office where Damian was waiting. Dinah peeked through the door before fully entering. Damian was sitting there silently, apparently in deep thought.

“Hello again, Damian. Sorry about that,” Dinah greeted offhandedly, taking her seat once again and taking out the various forms and notes. She could see the change in Damian’s demeanor when she apologized, however. “What did I say that made you upset, Damian?” Dinah asked, making sure to keep her body language open.

Damian seemed to glare at the floor before muttering, “Sorry.” Dinah nodded understandingly, but her confusion was over her face.

“Why does sorry make you upset?”

Damian almost looked like he wanted to up and leave, completely ignore the woman, or kill her. Dinah didn’t mind though. She’s had worse looks from vicious parents.

Damian still refused to move his eyes from the ground. “Sorry is an empty promise,” he declared, as if it were a fact. “Sorry does not mean anything. It is a word with no true meaning.”

Dinah wrote down a few more notes before saying, “Did your...mother ever apologize?” She hesitated.

Damian didn’t speak for an entire minute. Dinah figured he was composing his thoughts, but when he (almost completely silently) gasped, as if he were begging for air, she knew otherwise. Dinah dropped her pen and calmly laid her hands on the armchairs.

“Damian.” He still didn’t glance at her. “You need to take deep breaths,” she informed him softly. He still didn’t listen, so she continued talking. “I suggest doing the 4-7-8 breathing technique. It’s when a person breaths in through their nose for 4 seconds, holds for 7, then exhales for 8. Would you like to try that?”

Damian didn’t respond.

The boy seemed to hold down his own hands as if they were shackled, and his legs were now tucked against his small body.

Dinah sighed, thinking of another way to calm the boy. “You’re doing so great, Damian,” Dinah told him gently. “This is your first session and you’ve been so open. Many other kids can’t talk the way you can,” she complimented him. He seemed to be breathing a bit easier, the words seemingly working. 

“Just a few more questions then we can end this session, Damian,” Dinah assured him softly. Damian took a deeper breath, then promptly dropped his legs back down.

“I did not mean to act so petulant,” Damian panted out, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.

Dinah frowned. “You didn’t act childishly. You acted accordingly,” she assured him. He only scowled. Dinah continued, “Would you like to continue with the questions? We can now avoid questions about your mother,” she said.

Damian’s scowl softened a bit. “That is...a compromise,” he agreed.

Dinah nodded, a small smile on her face. “Good.”

* * *

It was not long for the two people to finish their session, and Dinah left with no doubt in her mind that the boy was autistic. She needed information on another diagnosis, but she needed to report to her team anyway.

Damian rushed back up to his bedroom, and Dinah lowered her eyes. She always felt horrible when her patients felt backed in a corner to answer her questions, but she constantly attempted to make them feel as comfortable as possible.

Alfred seemed to appear from thin air. “If I may ask, Miss Dinah, how was the session?” The old man asked innocently.

Dinah sighed. “It went better than I thought it would,” she replied vaguely. Alfred nodded knowingly, then lead her to the manor entrance. They exchanged goodbyes, then Dinah was back in her car.

Dinah relaxed against the wheel of her Toyota and closed her eyes tiredly. Maybe it was due to the long day, or maybe the whole session with Damian—she didn’t know. She knew Damian was _trying_. She could tell. He was just never given the opportunities to actually succeed in his social endeavors. Bruce was a handful too. Dinah understood that some people don’t have patience for autistic children, but...

For those people, she always told them to screw off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? 
> 
> Have an absolutely amazing day, everyone! P.S. I’m also on Fanfiction.net (with the same name) if anyone prefers one website over the other. I post the same content to each website.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola! Estoy aquí! I just wanted to say before the chapter that I’m so freakin’ thankful for all the really supportive comments I’ve been getting on this story. I’m absolutely ecstatic that I’ve connected with so many people, so thank you! 
> 
> Anyways, this is a short chapter, but there is a lot in it. I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> WARNING: Talks of child abuse and slight mention of non-consensual sex.

After Dinah went back to her team of pediatricians, psychologists, and psychiatrists, they all agreed that Damian had some form of autism. His fall on the spectrum, however, was unknown, and another diagnosis needed to be made by another session. 

Dinah suggested that it just be her to do the session, but another psychiatrist detested it, saying another person should talk with the boy to confirm his true diagnoses. Dinah had sighed, then reluctantly agreed. She knew Damian would not take it very well. 

Her prediction was correct—he didn’t. He absolutely despised the thought of another doctor talking with him in such a personal manner. The moment he stepped into the room, he looked around, then squinted his eyes as if he were wincing. He yelled at the doctors for their insistence, threatening them bodily harm only twice, then stomped up to his bedroom. 

Dinah wanted to get him, assure him that everything was confidential, but decided against it. If he was anything like his father, he needed his time alone. The doctors all looked at her expectantly, but she glared at them. “He needs his time,” she told them.  _Damian deserves that_, lied on the tip of her tongue. 

One psychologist, her name was Randy, sat down on the living room couch unceremoniously. “We can wait, guys,” Randy told them casually. _Yes you can_, Dinah thought, staring down the other doctors. 

They all did—for about a half hour. Dinah figured it was enough time for Damian to finish his meltdown, so she rushed up to his bedroom. She gently knocked on the door. “Damian?” She asked against the door. 

He didn’t reply. “I can have the session with you, but someone else is going to be in the room with us. Is that okay?”

She heard him walk to the door, then it swung open, revealing his emotionless expression. He didn’t say anything, but instead walked past her and downstairs. She could breathe again. 

* * *

The session, which lasted only an hour and a half this time, was cut to a halt when Randy continued asking questions about Talia. Dinah understood why she kept asking—she needed it to confirm her diagnosis—but she still felt absolutely horrible. 

The boy answered some questions the first few times, but was visibly uncomfortable. When Randy’s questions turned to how his mother had treated him emotionally, he threatened her with bodily harm. Randy backed off then. 

Dinah asked him questions about what he does when he’s anxious—in which he replied that he does nothing. Dinah had frowned, then asked what he does when he feels overwhelmed. Damian reluctantly replied that he makes a clicking noise, but otherwise nothing. 

Dinah had figured he had some sort of tic. When she asked if he’s had any other—whether that be now or in the past—he hesitantly replied with an answer that shocked both her and Randy. 

* * *

Dinah went back to the medical center and mulled over the results with her team. They all simultaneously agreed that Damian has Asperger Syndrome and C-PTSD. Dinah almost didn’t want to tell Bruce.

* * *

When Bruce made a personal appointment to talk about Damian’s diagnoses, she planned everything out. How exactly she was going to tell him, what she was going to do if he got upset—every small detail. Dinah knew she couldn’t predict the future, but she couldn’t help but worry over the boy. 

She honestly didn’t know what Bruce would do, but she hoped he would be as supportive as he could be. Damian deserved to be treated well, and Bruce had shown her time and time again that his role as a father has been negligent. 

“Damian has been formally diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome and Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Dinah informed him. Better to tell him as bluntly as possible. That was how Bruce liked things. 

Bruce placed-no, dropped his arms on his desktop. “C-PTSD?” He asked. 

Dinah had no doubt in her mind that Bruce knew what the disorder was, so she explained how her team reached that conclusion. “His mother abused him from when he was born to when you got him,” she said. “She would often torture him for small, simple acts and psychologically manipulate him. She would often leave him in isolation for days, lost in his own mind. He said the first time she enacted that ‘punishment’ was when he was four,” Dinah explained, anger simmering in her chest and tears beginning to form on her eyes. 

That boy deserved much,  _much_ better. 

He deserved a father that truly cared for him a way that his mother didn’t. However, Bruce still isolated Damian emotionally. It may have been a different way from how Talia did, but it still results in the same thing— _the feeling of loneliness_. 

And a boy with his diagnoses didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that. 

Bruce seemed to dissociate from the conversation, instead getting lost in his own head. “Bruce?” She asked for his attention. Bruce closed his eyes for a brief moment, then looked at her expectantly. “It’s not your fault,” she assured him. Bruce, however, didn’t seem convinced. Dinah continued, “If I remember correctly, you were unaware he was even alive. Talia dropped him off before you even knew he was your biological child, trauma and all.” 

It was technically true. Dinah was told the story through Roy, who was told by Jason. Talia al Ghul was infamous in the community, known for being bait for Batman while also defeating him at every step. It frustrated Dinah—that someone was able to have that much misused power and also conceive a child. Talia didn’t deserve the title of motherhood. 

The only thing Dinah didn’t understand, however, was why Bruce confided in her enough to sleep with her and conceive a child, whether he was ever aware of Damian’s existence or not. 

Bruce clenched his jaw stubbornly, so Dinah just gave up. 

“At first we believed he may just have C-PTSD, and some Aspergers symptoms manifested since he had little to no social interaction. But we were proven wrong during the second session, when Damian said he‘s been feeling this way before his mother would hurt him,” Dinah explained. 

Bruce blinked his blue eyes quickly and finally spoke up. “What did Damian say?” 

Dinah hesitated saying what Damian had admitted not too long before the session ended, but said it anyway. “Damian told me...” Dinah closed her eyes, sighing deeply. Bruce looked at her expectantly. “Damian told me that he used to have normal tics, like flapping his hands and jumping, but...” 

Dinah put her head in her hands, feeling like crying. _Talia al Ghul has been and always will be a horrible person_. “Yes, Dinah?” Bruce asked, his eyes searching yet desperate. 

“He told me that Talia would whip him if he ever did any physical tics.” 

She was met with silence. Silence which spanned for over a minute. Dinah figured that Bruce was processing everything, so she remained silent herself. 

Dinah felt guilt form in her stomach. “Are you alright, Bruce?” She finally asked. Dinah barely heard the gasp, but it was definitely due to Bruce attempting to control his emotions. “I can step out if-“ 

“What should I do to help him?” Bruce interrupted her, his voice strained. 

Dinah’s eyes softened. Maybe she was too harsh on the man—he was only trying to help his son. Yes, it may be a little (_a lot_) late for that, but he wants to help. “I would recommend putting him in cognitive behavioral therapy along with getting him a certified service dog. I know Damian finds the presence of animals calming, so a service dog is highly recommended,” she told him. 

Bruce began writing down some notes on a notepad. “What about his day-to-day?” He inquired emotionlessly. Dinah was once again struck with the realization that  _this_ was Damian’s day-to-day. An emotionally irresponsive father. 

Dinah answered, “Have patience with him. The reason why he can’t look at you while you’re talking is because he can only focus on either your body language or words. Don’t introduce Damian to tons of people at once—let him familiarize himself with them first.” Bruce continued writing. “Certain things will-do bug him. That can be certain sounds, smells, sensations, tastes, or sights. If he looks overwhelmed or anxious, then remove him from the situation.” 

Bruce didn’t look up from his notes. “What about meltdowns?” 

“They’re usually caused by things building up over a period of time. When he isn’t removed from those overstimulating environments over a certain period of time, then that will most likely lead to a meltdown,” Dinah explained. “Most kids with Aspergers prefer that people talk to them in a calming manner during and after their meltdown. I think Damian would much rather just be left alone. 

“They can also be caused by him feeling as though you’re not properly communicating with him. People with Aspergers Syndrome often feel as though they’re always one step behind everyone else socially.” She hesitated before saying, “Damian told me that.” 

Bruce didn’t stop writing. “Who?” He demanded. 

Dinah sighed, and sat back in her chair. “Dick.”  _You better not make the boy feel bad about thinking this way, Bruce. _

Bruce hummed, as though he was expecting that answer, and put down his pen. “Is the CBT good for his C-PTSD as well?” He asked her after lifting his head. 

Dinah nodded. “Yes. There’s a few options for him, though. Exposure therapy, CBT, and medication. Medication isn’t recommended, though,” she informed him. Bruce scribbled down some more notes, then looked back up at her expectantly. 

“Any more questions?” 

Bruce clenched his jaw. “Did he talk about any of his triggers?” 

Dinah sighed, the noise prolonged. “He said that he doesn’t like when people apologize through words. If they do apologize, they’re just empty promises. When I asked if his mother ever apologized, he had an anxiety attack,” she explained sadly. Bruce’s eyes lowered. “I believe one of his triggers is discussing his mother’s relationship with him. He was...okay with talking about her ‘punishments’, but he panicked when I asked him about actually socializing with his mother,” Dinah explained. 

Bruce nodded and pursed his lips. Before she could blink, he stood up and held out his hand. She rose from her seat and shook his hand briefly. “Thank you, Miss Lance. For everything,” Bruce said, looking directly in her eyes. 

Dinah attempted to smile at him, but she guessed it came out more as a grimace. “Of course, Bruce. Call me if you have any other questions,” she replied before grabbing her notes. She began walking to the door, then hesitated moving the door handle. 

She felt Bruce write down a few more notes, then drop the pen onto the paper. Dinah turned back around to face him. “Why did you sleep with her, Bruce?” 

Bruce clenched his jaw, avoiding her intense stare. “I was drugged,” he admitted, his voice hoarse; he then leaned back into his chair. 

Dinah stiffly nodded. “Sorry, Bruce. I understand,” she said, her heart suddenly aching, and walked out of the office. Dinah didn’t need-want Alfred following her out the door. 

As she walked to the entrance of the manor, she felt sadness but also completeness for Damian. 

* * *

Bruce slammed his office door behind him, suddenly feeling like never wanting to work in there again. He could faintly hear Damian teaching Titus an elaborate trick in the other room, and his throat tightened. 

Tim seemed to appear out of thin air. The young man seemed tired, which was honestly his regular state. “What did Dinah say?” Tim asked almost too eagerly. 

Bruce couldn’t look at Tim. “He has Aspergers and C-PTSD,” he stated before stalking down the hallway to the library. Maybe some casework would take his mind off this chaos. 

Tim visibly retracted. “Really?” He hesitated, his demeanor now changed to something more concerned. “So. You were right,” he breathed out. Bruce growled under his breath. It didn’t mean that Bruce wanted this for his son. 

Tim continued, “Have you told him? He needs to know.” Of course Bruce would tell him. Did Tim think he was stupid? “I’m...I’m sorry for saying all those things about Damian. The fights and stuff,” Tim apologized, only intensifying Bruce’s anger. Tim didn’t know; no one knew. So why did he hold himself to this unrealistic standard? 

“Oh god,” Tim said suddenly, almost making Bruce stop his brooding. “Who’s gonna tell Dick?” Tim hesitated, stopping in his tracks. 

Bruce suddenly turned around, dwarfing Tim in demeanor. “Dick will find out himself. Our focus should be on Damian,” Bruce barked out before turning on his heel and escaping to the cave. 

Tim stood there for a full minute, his head racing and his stomach heavy with guilt. 

* * *

Damian reacted...accordingly. He remained emotionless through the talks about his diagnoses and treatments, and asked to be excused to his room after. Bruce was blunt throughout the whole explanation, telling him that medications were not necessary and he would be doing cognitive behavioral therapy starting Tuesday. Certification classes for Titus would be starting soon as well. 

Damian felt heard for the first time in his life. Yes, he was being ordered to do certain treatments, but it was out of his father’s apparent concern for him. Damian had always been isolated by his mother, then isolated by himself ( _and perhaps Father_ ) when he began living with his father. Of course this isolation started when he was born, but it only intensified when his mother’s punishments were enacted. Her brutal treatments only served to make him more self-conscious about his tics. 

This felt safe. This felt as though something was finally happening to declutter his mind. Damian couldn’t give himself hope that his father would allow him to engage in his tics, the threat of a whipping still looming over his head. 

_Perhaps Gray...no. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? 
> 
> I hope you all have an absolutely amazing day! ALL LOVE <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, beautiful people! I’m back with the final chapter! I just wanted to say that I’m so grateful for all the support I’ve gotten on this story, and I would like to thank all my readers. I also wanted to mention one last time that the comments are always open for people to share their thoughts/opinions. If someone ever feels alone, just know that someone is always out there to be there for you. 
> 
> WARNING: Some mentions of child abuse/neglect. Very mild references to blood.

The last week had been a whirlwind of emotions. Cass, when informed of the diagnosis, was not at all surprised and just asked when she could help. Damian had appreciated her subtlety. Cass asked if she could tell Brown, and Damian reluctantly agreed. Brown had most likely already known because of Drake. 

Duke had been cool with it. He asked if Damian was okay, then said the boy could always call him if he ever felt overwhelmed. Damian felt thankful. 

Alfred treated him the same, which Damian (inwardly) appreciated. 

Drake and Father had, however, been distant. Drake, when he wasn’t ignoring Damian, was too gentile and cautious around the boy. It seemed as though the young man had completely back tracked on his plans of revenge for Damian, which the boy did not appreciate one bit. Tim’s sudden change of heart confused Damian, while also offend him— _why should my labels define how people socialize with me? _

Socialize. That was such a complex word for Damian. It translated to years of loneliness and pent-up anger. It’s translated to years of years of feeling on the outside looking in, as though his mind was in space. Something so insignificant, some things he couldn’t even identify himself, would set him off when he would  _socialize_.  Then people would distance themselves from him, eliciting nasty flashbacks; then he would distance himself. It created this confusing, homogenized cycle that he often lost himself in. 

Father completely neglected Damian for what Damian has assumed was some casework. Damian rarely saw his father—only during breakfast. Damian was morosely reminded of his time with Mother, and how she would purposefully ignore him because of his tics. 

Breakfast had been a constant for Damian. He had the same breakfast every day: a spinach omelet with two pieces of buttered toast. He despised the sugary taste of American orange juice, so he preferred water. Damian sat in the same place every meal. He recalled a time when Jason had attempted to steal his seat, but Damian threatened to tear out his kidneys. 

Bruce was also always there for breakfast. Yes, some days he was late and didn’t speak much, but Father managed to make it to the breakfast table at one point or another, everyday; Bruce’s presence calming and...fatherly.

Now. It felt detached. 

Damian bit the inside of his lip harshly, eventually perceiving the irony taste. He didn’t need to check to see if it was actually blood. He’s done this enough times that he’s familiar with the taste. Damian started doing it when he arrived at the manor. It was another tic—a way for him to silently but physically indulge in his anxieties. No one had noticed yet, and he had planned it that way. He purposefully avoided telling Miss Dinah because he knew she would force him to stop. 

The boy sneakily, silently spat into his napkin, the blood somehow vivid against the dark navy cloth. Damian hated the sight of blood—it always made his skin crawl uneasily. Damian folded the napkin, then placed in back on his lap. 

He hadn’t expected it when his father, not even looking up from his newspaper, asked, “Why did you spit in the napkin?” 

Damian stilled.  _No. He’s going to take away the one thing that..._

“Damian,” Bruce said firmly, putting down his newspaper and looking directly at the boy. It was the first time in almost a week that he actually  looked  at the boy. 

Damian just shook his head and picked up his fork, taking a quick bite of the omelet. When he put the fork back down, he saw it was bloody. Damian’s eyes briefly widened, then he tucked the fork in his lap. 

Bruce, when he saw the bloody fork, instantly got up and walked over to Damian. The boy obviously protested if his squirms were anything to go by, but Bruce pulled back his son’s lower lip. When he saw the gash Damian inflicted on himself, Bruce’s eyes saddened. 

The boy only did this because Bruce wasn’t acting like his father. 

No, Bruce was acting like Damian’s mother. 

Bruce let go of Damian’s lip with a heavy sigh. “Come down to the cave so I can patch that up, Damian,” Bruce ordered. 

Damian didn’t move from his spot, his eyes wide and scared. Bruce wondered what was going on through his head. “I’m not going to punish you, Damian,” Bruce told him, ducking his head. 

The tension in Damian eased greatly, and the boy placed the fork and napkin on the table and got up. “Will you force me to stop?” Damian hesitated, looking at Bruce’s torso. 

Bruce knelt down to properly look at the boy. Damian, of course, still didn’t make full eye contact with him and Bruce was reminded once again of his past disregard for Damian’s behaviors.  _How could I not notice these things about my own son? _ “We can find something else for you to chew on,” Bruce told him softly. 

Damian nodded understandingly. “Thank you, Father.” 

“You’re welcome, Damian.” 

* * *

Grayson arrived only a day later, enthusiastically greeting Alfred at the door and hugging Damian, telling him how long it’s been since they’ve spoken. It’d only been about a week and a half since he’s seen Grayson and a week since his diagnoses, but it had honestly felt like years for Damian. 

Dick still hadn’t been informed of his diagnoses, but Damian didn’t want to tell him quite yet. He enjoyed this level of normalcy; when his family treated him as an actual person and not as a special needs patient. 

“How are you, Little D?” Dick asked casually, sitting down on the living room couch. 

Damian’s mouth twitched upward. “Adequate, Grayson. Father has been distracted by casework this past week,” Damian replied feeling at ease with the man. 

Dick huffed disapprovingly, and Damian’s mind briefly flashed to the idea that Dick was disappointed in him. It changed, however, when Dick commented, “Bruce usually gets like that.” 

Damian already knew that. He had seen that various times over the last couple years. “I am aware.” 

Dick frowned. “But cases in Gotham are pretty low right now,” he informed Damian. 

Damian clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his lip.  _Is Father_... “Do you think Father is ignoring me?” Damian asked. He would never admit that his own voice quavered when he said that. 

Dick instantly saw his mistake and wrapped his arm around Damian’s stiff shoulders. “I don’t know, Dami,” he answered honestly, his own voice sad. Dick never bothered lying with Damian—the boy could tell a lie from the truth and would rather have the blunt truth anyway. “Did you two have a fight?” Dick asked Damian gently. 

Damian closed his eyes, thinking of a proper response. Dick would, without any doubt, gently interrogate him until he would confess the real reason why Father would ignore Damian. 

“No,” Damian answered stiffly. 

Dick frowned as he mentally skimmed through every anniversary of a death. But no, there had been no anniversary in the past week. “Why do you think he’s ignoring you?” Dick inquired, looking down at Damian. Damian continued looking forward and didn’t reply. Dick’s brows furrowed worriedly. “You okay, Dami?” 

Suddenly, Alfred entered the room with a small package in his hand. Without much glance to Dick, he handed it over to Damian. “Here’s your package, Master Damian. Your father made sure it arrived quick,” Alfred informed the boy. 

Dick tilted his head as Alfred gracefully exited the room, wondering what Bruce ordered for Damian and why. Damian stared at the package before placing it to his side, away from Dick. “Aren’t you going to open it?” Dick asked curiously, unwrapping his arm from around Damian’s shoulder. 

Damian snapped his head to meet his eyes with Dick’s. It was when Dick was fully able to look in Damian’s eyes that he saw the boy was desperate for a change in conversation. 

“I’m sorry, Damian, for invading your privacy. I’m just worried. Bruce usually has a reason for being so isolated,” Dick apologized. 

Damian lowered his eyes, then reached for the package. With shaking fingers, he tore the cardboard open and extracted a necklace from some bubble wrap. Dick tilted his head and smiled as Damian carefully lifted the necklace from the packaging. 

“A necklace? Cool,” Dick commented. 

Damian inspected the necklace meticulously. It was simple and subtle; a chain made of a soft, light fabric, and a small disk made of silicone already attached. Dick gently pried the object from his hands. “It’s made of silicone,” Dick noted while squeezing the material. 

“Yes, Grayson,” Damian replied, staring at the necklace intensely. 

Dick, seeing the look on his brother’s face, placed the necklace back in Damian’s hands. “It must mean something important,” Dick mentioned offhandedly. 

Damian suddenly felt like crying. He picked dutifully at the inside of his lip where there wasn’t stitches, and tightly gripped the piece of jewelry. Dick straightened out his back and looked at him concernedly. “Damian?” 

“Father is treating me like how Mother would,” Damian blurted out, shocking both of them. Damian, without any awareness, began breathing deeply, his chest caving in and out. 

Dick’s face hardened. “What do you mean?” He asked softly. His tone of voice was a complete juxtaposition to his body language, something so rare for the older man. Damian disliked this juxtaposition on Richard. 

“Ignoring. Like an invalid,” Damian gasped out. Dick tucked the boy into his side, then, just as a quickly, let go of him and got up. 

“I’ll be right back, Dami. Why don’t you play with Titus?” Dick suggested, looking directly at the boy. Damian didn’t do anything, so Dick paced down the cave stairs. 

“Bruce!” Dick yelled angrily, seeing the familiar form of his surrogate father. Bruce didn’t even glance at him, making the other man’s anger flare even more.  _How many times this week has he done that to Damian? _

“Look at your son, asshole!” Dick yelled as he continued walking towards the man. Bruce finally faced Dick with an emotionless expression. Without much regard for technique, Dick swung a fist to Bruce’s face. 

Bruce, of course, blocked it easily, and took a few steps backwards. The father looked Dick up and down, then huffed annoyedly. Dick clenched his jaw. “You don’t get to be angry,” Dick snarled. “You did this to yourself, Bruce.” 

The older hero sat back down on his computer chair, slumping against the leather. Bruce rested his forehead in the palm of his head and let Dick rant. “You know what Damian just told me, Bruce?” Bruce didn’t respond. “He told me you’re treating him like an invalid,” Dick informed him angrily. 

Bruce lifted his head from his palm. “Do you understand what happened last week?” The father demanded, his eyes narrowed. 

Dick’s eyes narrowed as well. “I’m gonna guess that he got diagnosed.  Finally ,” Dick answered, surprising Bruce. “C-PTSD?” Dick asked, though he already knew the answer. 

“How long have-“

“A few months,” Dick responded, crossing his arms across his chest. “Talia has always been his worst enemy.” 

Bruce, out of stress, rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb. When the moment passed, he peered back up at Dick. “He also has Asperger’s.” 

Bruce could tell that Dick deflated a bit at the news. Dick most likely had his suspicions, but didn’t think he was actually autistic. Dick’s expression suddenly changed when his face scrunched up in what Bruce assumed as anger. “So you left your autistic son who has C-PTSD without his only parent’s company?” Dick challenged. 

Bruce growled. “How do I deal with this, Dick!? Hm,” Bruce snapped. “Damian has never been easy. He’s rarely wanted help. How do I help him!?” 

Dick gritted his teeth. “You’ve been doing it for two years, Bruce,” Dick answered. “He should be starting therapy soon. I’m guessing you’re gonna also train Titus?” Bruce huffed through his nose in some semblance of an answer. “Then why are you assuming that you’ll be alone in helping Damian?” 

Bruce went silent. 

Dick’s eyes watered. “He told me upstairs that you’ve been treating him like Talia would’ve treated him.” 

Bruce seemed to stop breathing. Another short moment passed before he turned off the cave computer. Dick sighed, relieved. 

“I love Damian,” Bruce muttered. 

“I know.” 

“I don’t want him to get hurt.” 

“I know, Bruce. That’s why you should go upstairs and apologize.” 

“He doesn’t like it when people apologize verbally,” Bruce informed Dick. 

Dick furrowed his brows confusedly. “He just doesn’t like when people are vague about their apologies. If you say you’re sorry, it needs to be for a specific reason. It can’t be for making him feel a certain way, but it has to be about a certain action  _you _ did,” Dick explained, as though he were an expert in the subject. 

Bruce nodded slowly, taking mental note of everything Dick had just said. “Very well.” 

* * *

A year passed in which Titus was able to obtain his certification to be a service dog, and Damian was deep into CBT. Damian had been peeved when Bruce announced that Dinah wouldn’t be able to help him, but the new therapist was trustworthy according to Bruce. 

Her name was Yvonne Jackson, and she was looked into intensely when Bruce was researching therapists. Her record was spotless, she specialized in children with autism—specifically Asperger’s. Most of all, however, her old coworkers consistently described her as one of the most trustworthy people on the planet. After Bruce interviewed her, he knew she was worthy of knowing their secrets.

Yvonne was a short, stocky woman who was always direct with her language. She was blunt enough for Damian that he could fully understand her and compassionate enough to compromise with his feelings. 

Yvonne had been slightly upset with Bruce when she was told of Damian’s diagnoses and secret life. She had mentioned that the boy shouldn’t be in such high-strung environments, but Bruce reassured her in saying that it was all Damian knew. After a few more sessions, she had noticed that as well and stopped nagging Bruce about it. 

Damian was still the same, but he was able to indulge in more of his tics. The therapist recommended letting Damian’s old tics come back so it made it easier for him to cope with everyday life. Damian constantly had the same necklace around his neck—at school, during casework, even under his suit during patrol. It was not only a way for the boy to alleviate his anxiety, but the object also held some sentimental value. 

Damian still had meltdowns. He had a meltdown only a few hours after his father apologized for ignoring him for an entire week. Therapy wasn’t guaranteed to stop certain mannerisms or meltdowns, but it was supposed to make the patient more conscious of their own thoughts and actions. 

Damian also had Titus. The boy had admitted once (to Tim, surprisingly) that he liked the feeling of Titus’ fur. Bruce also figured out that the feeling of his gloves caused Damian to feel disgusted, so Bruce changed them to a different fabric that could withstand the same nightly activities. 

Bruce was trying. 

Sometimes he would get frustrated, then remember that Damian’s behaviors were mostly influenced by his mental trauma. The boy mostly had an idea on what was appropriate and what was not, but didn’t understand  why.  For example, it took months for Damian to just start saying ‘thank you’ and ‘please’, even though Bruce and Dick said it was a part of manners. He had replied that it was a waste of time to even say them. 

Still, Damian mostly did what he was told and learned how to recognize his own triggers. There were times in which Bruce wanted to track down Talia and skin her alive, but he knew Damian should have a better father than that. 

There were times when Bruce isolated himself. He attempted to ignore the outside world in favor of his own mental issues, but his care for his son always ultimately won. 

Bruce would never forget that Damian had said he was acting like Talia. 

It was about a year and three months after Damian’s diagnoses that the media figured it out. 

Damian hadn’t been affected much after he saw it in the paper, but he was mostly adamant that they find who spilled it to the press. Dick had been furious tracking down the source. With some help from Tim, they both found it had been a doctor from Dinah’s team that had been recently fired. That doctor was promptly turned into the police for breach of patient-doctor confidentiality. 

Dinah, when she figured out about the source, visited the manor and made sure Damian was okay. She made sure to apologize to both Damian and Bruce, then left with a heavy heart after they insisted she didn’t hold any responsibility. Dinah visited the manor more frequently after that. 

Damian seemed unaffected by the whole ‘scandal’, even saying once that it would be irrelevant in a few days. In those few days, however, various reporters trespassed Wayne Manor sporadically. Bruce attempted to politely ask them to leave, but he couldn’t help the annoyance that spilled through his tone. 

It had sparked many other rumors—that Bruce abused Damian, that Damian’s mother abused him, that Damian would never be able to pick up W.E. when he got older. One had even stated that Damian wasn’t Bruce’s son; the writer had said that the visual similarities meant nothing and that Bruce Wayne could never father a  _retarded child_.  Bruce seriously considered suing the outlet who wrote that article. 

It dulled after Bruce had a private interview with Clark Kent regarding the matter. Clark had been patient and understanding, asking all the right questions and sometimes talking to Damian directly, treating him like he would his own son. Some media outlets had claimed that Bruce Wayne had ties with Clark Kent, but most other media outlets backtracked, saying that Damian was a sweet, intelligent boy. Bruce made sure to invite Clark to the manor for a fancy dinner. The interview greatly eased the media frenzy. 

After that, also, Damian made a few friends. Both Colin and Jon were from the hero communities, but Damian met Maps through school. Despite how unfamiliar friendships felt for Damian, they were all incredibly patient and understanding of his limits. Damian took a particular liking to Jon Kent as they often snuck out together to go on secret missions. Despite the punishments they often received from Alfred and Mrs. Kent.

Colin was Abuse, a hero solely in Gotham, so Robin and him patrolled every Wednesday. Maps usually accompanied him at school, which he greatly appreciated. School, sometimes, felt domineering with its loud bells and tight spaces, but Maps was always there to talk him through it. 

Grayson continued to treat him as he usually would. Drake still had moments of over-concern, but Damian mostly brushed it off in favor of chewing his necklace. 

There was no cure for Aspergers or C-PTSD. Only time and coping mechanisms. 

The fight sometimes felt like too much for Damian—those were the nights when he would patrol until dawn—but he had a session every week. He had his family. He had Titus. He had Robin. He didn’t have Mother anymore, but he knew it was for the best. 

As Robin arrived back at the cave, feeling exhausted but somehow energetic, he knew he had to get stitches for the cut on his thigh. It was 5 in the morning, and his father was still working at the computer when he arrived. 

“Any wounds?” Bruce asked, not even glancing at the boy. The man was still in the Batman suit after a long night of his own. 

Damian replied, “Yes. One on my thigh that requires stitches.” 

Bruce sighed, making Damian slightly nervous, then stood up from his chair. “On the table, please,” Bruce ordered tiredly. 

Damian did as he was told, and pulled down his pants when his father asked him to. Bruce with his new gloves still on, began stitching the wound with careful hands. Damian looked around the cave, mentally writing his night’s report. Bruce let him do so. 

It was after the boy looked down at his thigh that Bruce asked, “Are the gloves bothering you?” 

Damian sniffed. “No.” 

Bruce finished the last stitch and carefully placed the tools in the metal tray, ensuring there was no loud banging. He covered the stitches with a bandage (there had been more than a few stitches) and patted Damian’s knee.  “Very well. You can type up your report now,” Bruce told him. Damian’s lips twitched upward, then he pulled up his pants. Damian walked to the computer, then began swiftly typing. 

Bruce smiled at the sight. “Be in bed by six please,” Bruce said offhandedly before cleaning up the medical supplies. 

Damian’s typing briefly stopped, then the boy replied, “Okay, Father.” 

Bruce’s smile grew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone was fully satisfied with this ending. I would like to thank everyone that has read this story, once again. I hope you all have an absolutely amazing day! ALL LOVE!!! <3
> 
> P.S. I have another story called Janus that I’m currently working on, incase anyone wants to check that out (shameless self-promo) ^-^


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